Henrietta Hen had commanded the Rooster to wait until daylight before he began to crow.  
He saw that she had made up her mind that he must obey her. But he knew he couldn't. And he always took great pains to be polite to the ladies.
 
It was a wonder the Rooster didn't turn red in the face. He had never found himself in such a corner before.
 
"You don't understand," he blurted¹. "I'd be delighted to oblige you, but if I didn't crow until after the sun rose I'd never crow again."
 
"We could stand that," was Henrietta Hen's grim reply.
 
"Perhaps!" he admitted—for she made him feel strangely humble². "But could you stand it if the night lasted forever?"
 
"You're talking nonsense now," she declared.
 
"You don't understand," he told her again. "And I must say I'm surprised, madam, that you didn't know it was I that waked the sun up every morning. That's why I crow so early."
 
Henrietta Hen was so astonished that she didn't know what to say. She thought deeply for a time—or as deeply as she could.
 
"Have you not noticed," the Rooster inquired, "that the sun never rises until I've crowed loudly a good many times?"
 
"No! No—I haven't," Henrietta murmured. "But now that you speak of it, I see that it's so."
 
"Exactly!" he said. "And often, madam, I have to crow a long time before he peeps over Blue Mountain. It's lucky I have a good, strong voice," the Rooster, added with a smirk³, for he was feeling more at his ease. "If I had a thin, squeaky crow such as those worthless cockerels have, Farmer Green would have had to do many a day's work in the dark."
 
"Goodness!" Henrietta Hen............